Untamed, Untethered
by Sassy Bigfoot
Summary: "He's...old!" she raged. "And he reeks of horses! I will not marry him, not while there is a brain in my head and breath in my lungs!" (Éomer/Lothíriel)
1. Chapter I

He stared unhappily at the watery grey skies, taking note of the birds which speckled the sky. Already flying south, for winter was approaching—the birds were smart. The wind carried a note of frost with them, and they needed to hasten before snow fell.

Oh, how he wished he was a bird. Able to fly where he pleased, go where he wished. Especially now.

Beneath him, Firefoot whickered impatiently. His horse was restless, eager to run and have free rein where he pleased. In that regard, he shared his steed's agitation; there was nothing better than riding a horse hard across open plains, or cutting down a foe in battle, or tasting open air. There had been precious little freedom as of late.

That's what this little exploration was supposed to be about, being able to run free and ignore his duties for a few hours. But it rang too sour. It felt more like a funeral march, the last ride of the King of Rohan. So he sat, watching the birds in the sky and listening to the frosted wind rustle the plains of grass.

Responsibilities had grown heavier on his ever-weary shoulders, and there had been little respite from the endless tedium of running a kingdom. Rohan, still burnt and scarred from the War, was regaining fragile peace—they had larger issues than the frustration of its king.

"My lord!"

The King of Rohan nudged Firefoot, and the pair turned to see Aldin, his shield-bearer. The fair-haired lad was riding his bay gelding, and both seemed to be grinning, somehow. "A splendid day to take the air, my lord, but it was poor taste to leave without notice," the boy said breathlessly.

"Aye," Éomer answered resignedly. "I wished to have a ride."

Aldin's eyebrows rose. "And much riding you seem to be doing," he replied cheekily. "What troubles you, my lord?" Éomer shook his head. Undeterred, the boy pressed on. "Did you perhaps come to savor your final few days as a bachelor?"

There was a long silence, and then: "It will be an honor to wed her."

The words were resoundingly flat. Aldin let the silence grow thick before saying quietly, "She is quite beautiful. You needn't worry, she will bear you many sons." There was no reaction from his master, so Aldin added brightly, "I doubt you will need to be drunk at the wedding feast at all."

Éomer's expression grew stonier. "Careful."

Knowing the breadth and ferocity of the horselord's temper, the uppity shieldbearer took a new tack. "She was received by your sister this morning. By the time we return, she will likely be bathed and freshened from her journey." Aldin tried again. "Even covered with mud, she was quite a—"

"Enough," the king snapped. "I am sure the princess is a beautiful woman, I am certain she will bear me many sons. Your chatter neither soothes my temper nor lifts my spirits, and your attempt at humor makes me reconsider sending you to the Second Marshal patrol."

Curtly, he nudged Firefoot, and the horse took off like an arrow from a bow. At full rein, the dappled grey horse would make quick time back to Meduseld, where his betrothed was likely bathing and resting. With the wind in his face and the sound of thundering hooves in his ears, only then was Éomer able to admit why he resisted the match.

Being the King of Rohan came with many responsibilities and burdens, and one of them was the knowledge that a sacred pact between Gondor and Rohan must be upheld. Political marriages for profit and strengthened ties was a custom between the two great nations, and Éomer had known this since he was a child. Yet there had always been little doubt in his mind that he would be able to marry who he wished, since Théodred had always been the heir.

And now, with Théodred gone, the burden was upon him.

He wanted to run. He wanted to be free, to gallop across the plains with his men at his heels and the wind in his teeth, to fight for his country and protect his borders. But now he sat in a hall, his arse upon a throne, and would be married off to some painted and spoiled Gondorian woman who would likely take to their wedding bed with shut eyes and gritted teeth. The throne was too large, and the crown poorly made—he was not the rightful heir.

But there was nothing to be done. He was the King of Rohan, and this was his duty: to marry Lothíriel, the Princess of Dol Amroth.

* * *

"He's…tall?" the girl asked, slipping deeper down into the tub. The warm water pooled around her knees and shoulders as she pondered this. Her handmaiden, Salabil, was a matronly woman with a soft, lined face; she poured more water into the copper tub, and began massaging scented oils into her charge's raven-colored hair.

"Aye, milady, they say he's tall an' very broad. Well-known for fightin' and ridin' and all sorts of carryin' on," Salabil said decisively. Lothíriel closed her eyes and leaned back into the warm water, relaxing at the scent of lavender.

She mentally ticked through all the books she had read about Rohan. Since she was a child, she had known she would be wed to a Rohirric man, and most likely Théodred—as teens, the two had exchanged polite letters, and she deemed him a suitable man. Since he was kind and well-read, she had slowly adjusted to the idea of marrying a virtual stranger. Her study of Rohan and its culture was fairly in-depth, but she had never once visited the strange, vast lands. After weeks of travel, she was sick of the empty skies and bland plains, but made no sign of this to others. This was to be her new home, after all.

But now she was marrying a _complete_ stranger. Théodred had died, and news of his death had rippled through Middle Earth with small waves. She hadn't cried at his death, but had been seized with a deep and unwavering panic—what was she to do now? Her future, so carefully planned and followed, had now been thrown into deep chaos.

It was time to restructure.

"When will he be arriving?" she asked aloud. It secretly irked her that her soon-to-be-betrothed had not met her arrival at the gates, and yet she was glad, too. After weeks of traveling, she was grateful for the opportunity to make a good first impression.

"Around sunset, milady. They sent his shieldbearer to go find him. He oft'n takes rides to clear his head, or so they say." Salabil stepped back and fetched a cloth for the princess to dry herself with, turning her head to one side demurely so as to protect the girl's modesty.

Lothíriel nodded once, wrapping the cloth around her. "Then we have some time. Braid my hair, if you please, and twist it up—I would like it to be away from my face. And then I'll find a suitable dress, hopefully they haven't been too crushed by the travel. No jewelry. I don't want to…"

She paused in her plans, searching for a suitable word.

"…overwhelm him."

With her dark hair drawn away from her face, she hoped to highlight her cheekbones and jaw, which were in her opinion, her best features. The dress she had in mind was a dark green with white trim, the colors of Rohan, and the dress suited her complexion (and figure) quite well. Although she seldom went anywhere without her pendent and rings, tonight would be a simple affair. Dinner, music, and conversation, while her brothers made themselves comfortable and she got to know her future husband. She didn't need to be wearing all her stones and jewels for that.

Years of plans had been dashed, and hasty new ones built in their place. Tonight, however, she hoped it would all come to fruition: she and the King of Rohan would meet, marry, and have children together. Love was an unnecessary but appreciated benefit of such an arrangement.

And yet, for all her plans, it worried her that the only thing she knew about Éomer was that he was _tall_.

* * *

He had known that the princess was lovely, and knew that she most likely would be dark-haired and dark-eyed. What he hadn't expected was her _size_.

She was tiny and slender, with skin the color of new cream and very dark hair. Even sitting, he could tell that she would barely come up to his chest; she was delicate. Petite. Frail, almost. Across the room, he could sense when her attention swung in his direction, and then he saw her eyes—large, dark brown eyes with heavy lashes, in this light they seemed nearly black. She was lovely, but he felt as though if he touched her, she would shatter.

How typical of Gondorian women.

Across the room, Lothíriel did her best to keep her expression hidden behind a careful mask. He was _old._ Perhaps ten years older than she. He was standing in the doorway, framed by it, and although the ceilings were high, he had to stoop to enter. Broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, his thick frame draped in a crimson tunic, he frightened her. His hair was shoulder length and wild, curled and snarled but the color of spring sunlight. Although his beard was neat and trimmed close to his jaw, it was very easy to imagine him with a braided beard like a Dwarf.

She felt as though he touched nothing carefully. His hands, huge and most likely calloused, fluttered somewhat anxiously for a moment, before hooking around his belt. Destroyer. Barbarian. All the ugly stereotypes about Rohan came flooding back to her mind. Did he know how to read?

How typical of Rohirric men.

Lothíriel stood, fumblingly, and licked her lips quickly. "My lord," she said awkwardly. She could feel every eye on the hall upon them.

His eyes (bright and brilliant, blue as open skies and somehow twice as empty) swept her from head to foot. Éomer was not as learned as she in masking his expressions: there was open surprise and vague unhappiness in his face. And then, he bowed.

"My lady," he replied, just as uneasily. He kissed her hand and she resisted the urge to wrench it away from him.

Their eyes met again, and at that moment, the same thought went through both of their minds:

 _This is not a good match._

* * *

 **This story idea popped into my head not too long ago, and I thought I would share. Any kind of comment or feedback is appreciated! xoxo, Sassy Bigfoot**


	2. Chapter II

"I don't _despise_ him," Lothíriel insisted almost petulantly as she attacked her carefully twined plaits. Hair falling in thick waves around her, she continued. "He's just…not what I expected. At all. I thought Rohan was a place of _some_ decorum."

Her brother, Amrothos, chuckled dryly. Her closest brother, both in age and spirit, he had followed her back to her chambers after the introductory feast. "Rohan is a land of great passion and culture, but _decorum_ is not a word I would use to describe their rituals," he said wryly. The dark-haired boy, sprawled ungainly on her bed, sat up. "And anyway, you _do_ despise him. I could see it in your eyes. You're not as good of a liar as you think."

She finished yanking the final pin out of her hair, and tossed it on the table with a clatter. "I _don't_." The princess snapped. "And I'm not a liar."

"You are. You're lying to me right now, saying you don't despise him," Amrothos laughed, getting to his feet. "You don't have to marry him, you know. You'd hardly be the first girl to take one look at her suitor, turn pale, and run back home."

"I _will_ marry him, and I am _not_ running home," she scowled. "I made a promise to Mother that I would marry, and marry him I shall. I just—"

She paused, collecting her thoughts.

"—dislike changing plans."

Her brother smiled at her fondly, and then kissed the top of her head. "I know, pet. But if you truly don't wish to marry him, you don't have to. If you change your mind, come see me, and we'll go home."

Amrothos left, closing the door gently behind him, and Lothíriel exhaled. Now that she was alone, she threw herself on the bed and groaned into a pillow.

He was far too tall, much too crude, and he smelled like _horses_. Everything in Rohan smelled like horses; there was none of the salt spray and smell of the ocean here. She missed the cawing of seagulls and the rush of ocean waves against the walls—everything in Rohan was dingy and tired, none of the white splendidness of Dol Amroth. And this horselord which she was to be married to, he was…well! He was a _fright_. All through the meal he had remained sullen and quiet, keeping his eyes downcast and scarcely looking at her. At many turns she had tried to engage him in conversation, only to receive brusque, few-worded replies.

A few days ago, she had viewed this whole situation with a sort of romantic splendor. Perhaps Théodred's death had been planned by the Valar, and her true love was with Éomer. They might not love each other at first, but with time and care, she had been certain they would have built a deep foundation of understanding and mutual respect.

Now, she had no idea what to think. She rolled over onto her bed and groaned again.

She was going to be a _horselord's_ wife!

* * *

 _THWACK!_

His sword attacked the splintered dummy and sent pieces of sawdust flying through the air. The lighting in the stableyard was incredibly poor, with only a few lanterns for illumination, but even the darkness didn't hide the ferocious glare on Éomer's face. His sword flashed through the air again and this time it bit deeply into the wooden cross on which the dummy hung upon, and it took him a moment to wrench it free.

"You ruin so many things when you're angry," a familiar voice called. Panting, he turned, and felt the anger leave him all in a rush of air; Éowyn, his sister, stood in the doorway of the stables with a warm smile on her face.

"Aye," he grunted, and swung his sword miserably. Éowyn patted him on the shoulder and then rested her cheek on his arm.

"She's very beautiful," she offered after a moment.

"Aye." He agreed, sheathing his sword with an awful air of finality.

"And very intelligent," Éowyn added.

He said nothing, but stumped off into the darkness to take down the lanterns.

"You turn into such a bear when you're thoughtful, brother," Éowyn sighed. "She would make you a good wife, and a good mother to your children. It is a duty that must be borne."

He set the lanterns down on the stones, away from the hay, where they couldn't be kicked by the horses. "Aye, it's a duty, and like every other duty it's one I will bear without complaint. But this business of ruling—" he gestured around him, at the stables, at Rohan itself, "—it's not one I was made to do. I am a soldier, not a ruler. These… _politics_ , arrangements, favors, it does not suit me. I have advisors and lords and marshals to tell me what to do, to say, who to fight, who to marry. It's all…"

He paused, looking for the appropriate word.

"…hollow."

His sister stood next to him, letting the thoughtful silence stretch. Then, she said softly, "Éomer, you are far stronger than you know. There are none more fit to rule than you—I can imagine no other sitting on the throne. You were _born_ to lead, it's in your blood, your soul. The Valar has destined this for you, my brother. I know ruling was not your intention but it's what comes naturally to you. Stop fighting instinct, Éomer. Lead with your strength, and Rohan will follow you to the ends of Middle Earth."

The siblings sat together in the semi-darkness, listening to the soft whinnies of horses.

* * *

It was a cold, rainy, soggy day which dawned the next morning, and the damp weather seemed to match many spirits. Thunder rumbled distantly and arguments seemed to brew along with the burgeoning storm. Determined not to let the weather best her spirits, Lothíriel combed her hair and plaited it firmly, pinning the braids close to the nape of her neck. _Don't overwhelm him_ , she told herself firmly as she slipped her pendant around her neck. She would forego the rings for now.

Upon learning her betrothed to be was out in the stables, she fastened a smile on her face and stepped out into the drizzling rain. It was a short walk from Meduseld to the stables, but she got thoroughly damp in the journey; the smile she had on her face contained gritted teeth.

"My lord?" she called out, letting her skirts fall. They swept the dirt floor of the stables and she hastily picked them up again. "King Éomer?"

"Ignore the title," Éomer grumbled, and she spotted him in a corner. He was currying Firefoot, the short-bristled brush sweeping hay and old lather from the grey horse's back. "Just Éomer will do."

"Éomer, then," Lothíriel said, trying to sound coquettish. "I…was merely wondering if—"

"Speak up," he rumbled, deep voice all growl and intimidation, "I can't hear the mewl of a kitten."

"I was merely _wondering_ if you would like to accompany me to a meal!" she called over the patter of rain on the roof. Feeling completely ridiculous, she could feel a hot blush rising to her cheeks. "They have prepared some, some food, and I was hoping we could—"

"Aye, I will." He said, and turned his back dismissively.

Lothíriel's lips pressed together and she darted across the open stableyard, mud swiping her skirts and rain speckling her face. "I will keep your company until then," she said breathlessly. He glanced at her and saw the stubbornness there.

His brow rose. "If it pleases you."

"It does," she snipped. She stepped carefully away from Firefoot, hands buried in her skirts, feeling awkward and out of place. After a moment, she piped up again. "I was wondering if—"

"Speak up," he grunted.

She ground her teeth together. " _I was wondering if_ —"

"You do an awful lot of wondering, for a princess," Éomer interrupted her. She felt her reddening cheeks grow hotter and her small fists tightened with anger.

"I was wondering," she growled, through clenched teeth, "if you had given any thought to our _courtship_ process."

This caused Éomer to pause and the currycomb stopped its relentless brushing of Firefoot's flanks. "Aye," he said lowly, after a moment. "I have."

"Then…would you like to meet with me after our meal, so we can discuss arrangements?" she asked, forcing herself to be calm. _Breathe. Relax. He's only a horselord, you might have to repeat this._

"Discuss arrangements?" Éomer snorted. "What arrangements are there to discuss, Princess?"

His use of her title seemed snide. "I meant discussing Rohirric betrothal customs. They aren't so different from Gondorrian ones, surprisingly."

"Surprisingly?"

"Yes, _surprisingly_ , considering things are so much…" she paused, looking for a word that would hurt him appropriately, " _simpler_ here."

"Simpler?" he repeated, anger growing.

"Yes." She swished her skirts, turning away from him. Her anger was cold now, glacial and strong. "I mean, I expected betrothal customs here to be more along the lines of, 'grab the nearest girl you can find and take her next to a fire'. Gondor does things a little differently, and a little differently still in Dol Amroth. We're a little more civilized."

"Civilized!" he growled.

"Are you just going to repeat every word I say, or…Oh! Are those the words you don't understand? Surprisingly means 'unexpected', and simpler means—"

"What kind of man do you take me for?" he snarled, stepping around Firefoot and approaching her. "Do you take me for an Orc, a barbarian, some Northern savage? Do you think this is an easy task for me to undertake? You were supposed to be Théodred's responsibility, his decision, his _burden._ He was the one who would deal with the soft, spoilt, painted princess from Gondor, not I!"

He was huge and fearsome and she felt tears welling up in her, but she spat back, "Do you think I wanted to marry _you_? Or even Théodred, for that matter? Do you think _marriage_ is all I sit around and think about, how wonderful it would be to lay on my back and whelp out a few children for some lord or prince or _king_ , who couldn't care the slightest about me!"

They stood there, inches from each other, breathing hard. Tears poured down her face and her shoulders shook, but she didn't dare flinch away.

"Leave," he said finally, coldly, all his heat and anger gone. "Go home to Dol Amroth."

"No," she said stubbornly, chin jutting forward. "Marriage is not my choice, it is my _duty_. I will do what must be _done_. And if that means marrying you, then I will not let that stand in my way. Now," she gathered her skirts back into her hands and stamped her way out of the mud, "After noonday meal, I will meet you inside and we will discuss _arrangements_."

It wasn't until she was inside, drenched from the rain and still crying desperately, that she noticed her pendant was gone.

* * *

 **Glad to hear all the reviews! I don't know how long this story will be, but there's definitely ground I want to cover, so I thought I'd upload another chapter so we can get there! FYI, I am a huge fan of smut and also of marriage-consummation fics, so this rating may or may not be upped in later chapters. ^^; xoxo, Sassy Bigfoot**


	3. Chapter III

She didn't appear at the meal and Éomer knew she was hiding somewhere, bawling her eyes out like a newborn babe. The deep-seated anger hadn't yet dissolved yet, and the idea of being treated like some kind of uncivilized _savage_ had struck deep. Marriage customs of the Rohirrim were beautiful, simple, and passionate. Most Rohirric culture was. Angrily, he swigged mead and then wiped the foam off his beard with the back of his arm.

If he was going to be treated like a barbarian, he might as well act like one.

The drizzle had thickened and turned into a proper deluge just after midday, and the noise of the heavy rain on the roof was enough to calm his spirits somewhat. He hated this—he hated _her_. If he could, he would have seized her bodily and thrown her outside the gates of Edoras, kicking those simpering brothers as well. But it was no use; if the frigid girl was determined to marry him, then he wasn't about to back down and relieve her of the satisfaction.

It was nearly an hour past midday meal and she still had not appeared. With a groan, he finished his ale and stood. Finding her would be the gentlemanly thing. It would be what Théodred would do. After a brief trip to her hall and a polite inquiry at her door, he discovered she was not hiding away in her room like he had assumed.

A flash of blonde hair caught his eye and he called out, "Aldin!"

"Yes, m'lord?" the lad stopped short and wheeled around.

"Where is the Princess Lothíriel?" he demanded.

Aldin's mouth tightened to suppress a grin. "She's, ah, enjoying the weather."

"The what?" Éomer asked, scowling. Overhead, the storm boomed.

"Yes, m'lord. She's been out in the stableyard for…quite a while, now." Aldin couldn't help the irrepressible grin which broke out over his face. "Looking for some trinket or another. She seemed to be having a perfectly fine time on her own, so we decided to just—"

"Leave her there?" Éomer cut him off. " _Why_?"

The golden-haired boy shrugged. "One of the stableboys overheard the Princess this morning saying some rather… _unpleasant_ things about you, sir. And it's just a bit of water." He paused, examining Éomer's thundery expression. Aldin drew himself up, somewhat defiantly. "She's got high airs to come here to Edoras and call us uncivilized. Thought the rain and a bit of mud might bring her down a bit."

Éomer pinned his shieldbearer to the wall with a withering look. "She is the Princess of Dol Amroth. You are to treat her as you would any lady of her blood and status. If she calls you a bastard from a three-humped sow, you will show her respect. Do you understand me, Aldin?"

"Yes, m'lord," Aldin said, deflating.

The horselord forced his way past the foolish boy and hurried out into the courtyard. Reprimanding Aldin had been necessary, but a private flicker of anger agreed with him. Let her muck around in the mud and rain for a while, and then they would see who was uncivilized or not. Perhaps getting one of those pretty dresses ruined might take the edge off her frosty temper.

He stopped short at the doorway to the stableyard, a crease furrowing his brow.

She was on her hands and knees, mindless of the filth and muck which caked her and caused her to look almost unrecognizable. Her plaited black hair had fallen in tangled, messy curtains around her, and judging from the mud streaked on her face, she had pushed it away many times. The princess did not look up, but was patting through the mud carefully, disturbing every inch of dirt, looking for something.

"Princess!" he shouted out over the rain, and strode over. "Come inside, the rain will—"

"Go away!"

It was almost a raw shriek, and he could see the hot flush of shame on Lothíriel, creeping up her neck. She had been crying. Sobbing. Her eyes were red and she was the most disheveled, filthy mess he had ever seen. It was a stark contrast to the prim, rigid girl who had sneered and called him a barbarian less than two hours earlier.

From behind him, he heard the squelch of boots in mud; it was Amrothos, her older brother, with a cloak and a tightly worried expression. "Sister, come inside!" he called.

"No!" she called out, voice brittle, "No, I _won't_ , I need it, you must help me find it, please!"

"Find what?" Éomer asked, raising his voice over the rain.

Her hand flew to her clavicle. "My pendent," she sniffled. "It's a blue stone in a silver chain. I need it."

Annoyance rolled through the horselord and he threw up his hands. Amrothos brushed past him and draped his cloak over the kneeling form of his sister, and gently pried her up and away from the mud. She buried her face into his chest and sobbed. "It's gone," Éomer heard her say, voice muffled. "It's gone, I've lost it."

"Shh, sister," her brother said, petting her soaked, tangled hair. "It'll be found. And if not, I'll make you a new one. Just like the old one."

This brought on a fresh wave of tears and Éomer's temper, long kept on a frayed leash, finally broke free.

"Are you _this_ upset over the loss of a trinket?" he snapped. "Are you such a child that a missing necklace causes you hysterics?"

She whirled around, pale face streaked with mud and tears; her dress had ripped and was sliding off one shoulder. "It was my _mother's_!" she screamed at him, terrible wrath and grief. "It was the last thing I had from her, the _only_ thing! It was all I had left! And it's _gone_ , I've lost it!"

Lothíriel fled, ruined dress dragging behind her, cloak swallowing her up.

The two men stood in the rain for a long moment, and Éomer could feel every drop strike his face. Amrothos finally sighed. "My sister—" he began, and then stopped. There were no words to be said, and eventually the prince simply left, leaving Éomer there in the rain.

* * *

She paced her room fretfully, ignoring the deep chill still spreading from her core. Her ruined dress had been taken away—probably to be burnt, like everything else she had ruined. Like all of her mother's things. Imrahil had sealed most of his wife's things away in her crypt, but the night of her funeral he burnt the rest, while Lothíriel stood in the doorway, watching. He hadn't known she was there; she had been in her twelfth winter.

The door opened and she whirled around. "Sister—" Amrothos began.

"I will _not marry him!_ "

Her older brother gave pause, eyebrows raising.

"He's—" she latched on to the first word that popped into her head, "He's… _old_!" she raged. "And he reeks of _horses_! I will not marry him, not while there is a brain in my head and breath in my lungs!"

"Easy, sister," Amrothos soothed, and held her close for a moment. Quivering with anger, it took her a long while to finally relax, and when she did, he kissed the top of her head. "Here, sit."

The siblings sat on the bed and he held his little sister close. "I see now why father sent me with you," he chuckled lowly. "He said you might take to Rohan this way."

"It has nothing to do with Rohan," Lothíriel spat. "It's _him_."

"He is a good man," Amrothos said. At his sister's scoff, he continued. "He is short-tempered and a fool, but, my dear sister, so are _you_. Father told me before we left that you and Éomer are altogether too similar—he said it was what made you a good match."

"Father was mistaken," Lothíriel said flatly.

"I do not believe he was. Éomer is not much older than you—perhaps the years have weathered him, but remember what he has been through, sister. Gondor has her king, a new White Tree has been planted, our city is being restored; Rohan is scattered and restless. It will take a good leader to bring it back together into one band, and Éomer is that leader. He bears much on his shoulders. He is a good man, but if you feel as though the match is poor, I will take you home."

"The match is poor," she mumbled into her brother's arm, her anger dissolving. "We are so _different_. I cannot think of a similar interest between myself and Éomer. How…how is a marriage supposed to be built upon such differences?"

"Work," Amrothos said simply. "It will not be easy. Give it a week, sister, and if you still feel the same, then we will go home."

* * *

It was very late in the night when Lothíriel crept out of her room. She was wearing only her nightdress, which would be terribly improper of any Gondorrian lady, but there was nobody to disturb provided she only went straight to the kitchens and back. She hadn't eaten since morning and she was starving.

The fires in the kitchen were not banked, which surprised her—was someone there? She paused, but saw nobody, so continued. The storeroom was locked tight, but she hoped there were some scraps left over from dinner—meat or cheese or bread, anything which could help her sleep.

Food was laid out for breakfast tomorrow, and she guiltily took one of the loaves of bread. She wouldn't eat the whole thing, of course, just a bit. Perhaps more than a bit. Lothíriel tore off one end of the loaf.

"Princess," a rough voice said, and she squeaked in surprise, mouth full of bread.

It was Éomer.

And she was standing in a nightdress with a hunk of bread in her mouth.

He was wearing breeches and a tunic but the outer layer of his clothes had been stripped, but he was still damp. The horselord had been out in the rain for quite some time, and his golden curls were soaked—she could only imagine what the rest of his armor and tunic must look like. Probably similar to her dress. The impropriety of this whole situation washed over her: neither of them were properly dressed and they were standing alone, in a dimly lit room. So many conclusions could be drawn from this.

There was an odd, unreadable expression on Éomer's face. "I found it."

"What?" she said. The word was almost unrecognizable due to the food in her mouth, which she swallowed quickly. He held out his hand and she awkwardly set the bread down on the table to accept whatever he was giving her.

It was the pendent.

She stood stock still, holding the delicate sapphire pendent in her hand. "The chain was ruined," Éomer said quietly, eyes downcast. "The mud and the rain, I'm afraid. I can get a silversmith to repair it, if you wish."

Lothíriel looked at him, dumbfounded.

"I was going to leave it at your door, but—" he gestured to the kitchen.

"Thank you," she interrupted him. The words flew out of her mouth and she clutched the sapphire hard, knuckles going white. "Thank you, _thank you_ , oh Varda, _thank you_."

He stood silently, obviously taken aback by her gratitude.

She flushed and tucked her hair behind her ear. "I also wish to apologize," she mumbled, looking away. "I was cruel and unkind. I know it must seem…vain and silly and childish, but it was all I had left of my mother's. She gave it to me as a child, and told me to wear it always, and the sapphire would bring good luck and wisdom."

"I…" he stopped uncomfortably, fumbling for the right words. "I did not mean to slight the memory of your mother. Your father loved her terribly, he spoke of her often." He paused, fidgeting. "I know what it is like to lose someone you love. I have nothing of my parents to remember them by, but one or two things of Théodred—" something in his chest squeezed painfully upon speaking his name, "—which make his passing a little…easier."

They had both lost a tremendous amount before the War even began. Now, while fragile peace lay over the land, there was so much to do to distract them both from properly grieving. Lothíriel gazed at the sapphire and then back at Éomer.

"I'm…sorry," she said at last.

He shrugged easily.

"I should leave, I'm not proper," Lothíriel said at last, gathering her skirts around her, remembering at last that she was in a nightdress and nothing more.

Éomer raised a brow. "There's no nurse to scold you," he rumbled. "It's not as though I will write to your father saying what an improper lady he's raised. What type of woman sneaks into a darkened kitchen to steal bread?"

His tone was good-natured and less fierce than his sarcasm that afternoon, and yet she still felt a prickle of defensiveness. "I wasn't stealing!"

He loosened his vambraces and sat at the table, plucking the torn loaf from the rest of the bread. "Those words could be etched onto every thief's forehead," he pointed out.

Hesitantly, she sat opposite him. "If I recall, I was _going_ to have a midday meal with my betrothed, which never happened," she shot back.

"Or an evening meal, which you never attended."

"Neither did you, so it hardly matters!"

He laughed—it was short, but deep and good, coming from his chest. "Only because I was looking for a misplaced necklace."

She felt a squirm of awkwardness again and bit into the bread to hide it. "Thank you again," Lothíriel said quietly.

Éomer cut off a piece of cheese with his knife and ate it off the blade casually. "I was being a fool," he admitted. There was a deliberate pause and then he added, "As were you."

"Quite," she agreed, and stole the bread back from him.

* * *

 **Just wanted to add a quick note: I am by no means an expert in the LotR universe! It's vast and expansive and I'm sure there's lots of people who can find tons of errors and whatnot in my story. Someone pointed out that Lothíriel is supposed to be tall, but I just personally like the visual better of a tiny fierce princess and a giant loving warrior—it ties into the title, which will come up in later chapters.**

 **Anyway, that's just my little disclaimer; I've read the books and watched the movies but it's a bit like the Game of Thrones or Star Wars universe—there's tons of history there that I'm certain I'll get wrong, haha. Thank you so much for all your kind words, I read every one of your reviews and they make my day! Xoxo, Sassy Bigfoot**


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